


Emerging from the Chrysalis

by TelepathJeneral



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: M/M, Other, Serial Killer!Will, dark!Will
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-11
Updated: 2014-05-18
Packaged: 2018-01-24 08:49:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1598888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TelepathJeneral/pseuds/TelepathJeneral
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hannibal's work is come to a head, though it may not yet be completed. After a number of murders back in the States, Hannibal believes discretion the better part of valor and takes Will to a sanctuary. Will rests and recovers, and finds a new path to take.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It’s dark as Will wakes, a soft pink tingeing the sky as a precursor to dawn.

He’s sore as he sits up, muscles complaining not from overuse but from staying too long in one position, suggesting to him that he’s been asleep for longer than he should have been. Will sits up, squinting his eyes closed as he presses his bare feet to a cool wooden floor, and it’s by touch that he finds his way to a small balcony. The chill seems omnipresent when he gets to the open air, his hands tightly gripping a latticed iron railing while his feet tell him about the roughness of the concrete underneath him.

He’s at least two stories up, possibly more. The city beneath him moves with the landscape, hills popping up in the distance, and Will has to concentrate to try and find some stability. As the sun rises further, gentle reds and warm browns seem to glow with the light, and Will keeps his eyes squinted as he pieces together small bits of information.

He’s seen this view before. Not this exact view, but something close enough to it, and he wouldn’t be able to stand outside in just his bedshirt if he was in New England. No, the city’s different, very different, and once the sun comes up properly Will has to turn away in order to think. A glare from the windows makes his eyes hurt, but he tries to concentrate on the facts. Facts are good. Facts are stable. Red roofs and warm sun and the scent of the sea aren’t helpful.

 There’s a sinking in his stomach when he realizes that it’s Italian, or something Mediterranean, something exotic and new and unfamiliar. He winces at that, rubbing at his eyes again in an attempt to erase the realization, but a multitude of sounds in quick succession soon distract him. There’s a car starting across the street, angry in the morning quiet, and birds flocking in the trees a house down. The door to the balcony slides open further, squeaking slightly, and the whisper of slippers against concrete makes Will simultaneously flinch and smile.

“Do you like the view? We’re close to the Piazza del Popolo; there are pools, or fountains, we could visit.” Even in waking, Hannibal has a scent, and Will keeps his eyes closed until the rough tinge of the amber and musk becomes nearly unbearable.

He looks up.

Hannibal is close, always close, and he’s studying Will with the amused intensity he saves for private occasions. Will manages to meet his gaze evenly, leaning back to rest against the iron railing, and Hannibal acknowledges the move by stepping back. It’s entirely predatory, their dance. And Will should be afraid.

He knows he isn’t afraid, however. It’s been too long for fear. He’s known Hannibal, he’s been with Hannibal, for too long, and fear is no longer part of the equation. However, there is still a faint tremor when he finally releases his hold on the balcony, and Will is only grateful that Hannibal’s already turned away to enter the apartment again.

“If you don’t like the location, please let me know. Even in Rome, one has many options.” Hannibal’s voice carries through the open layout of the apartment, and Will winces still as he wipes the sleep from his eyes. Surprisingly modern, the apartment seems almost offensive in view of the elegant church buildings visible through the balcony windows, and Will leans against a sleek brown counter before watching Hannibal find a pan.

This is more familiar. Even if they are in Rome, however they got there, Will knows that Hannibal would never forgo a proper set of culinary utensils. It’s what he loves about the man, if someone would ask. Hannibal retains an art about him, an elegance that is impossible to remove, and even as Will dislikes the artifice he appreciates the artistry of each movement. The artifice is part of them now, part of both of them, and it makes Will’s head hurt to try and figure out what lies Hannibal might have told.

Especially now that they’re in Rome. Rome really doesn’t make sense. Rome is the other side of the world, so far from the woods and the cabin and the dogs. It makes Will’s head hurt again, and he tries not to show it. But fortunately, Hannibal is mostly oblivious to people outside of himself.

“I visited once, as part of a schooling opportunity. Most great Italian art is actually in France, but to live and breathe among the masters…” Hannibal nods to the window, letting the pan now full of meats and herbs fry. “You have never struck me as an artisan, however.”

“I’m not, I don’t-“ Will shakes his head, his unruly curls falling in his face. He makes a note to get those taken care of. As with most of his notes, he’ll quickly forget it. “You are the brilliant one here, Hannibal, you make the plans and draw out the sketches and I can simply watch.”

“What you can do, and what you do in actuality, are often very different things, Will.” Hannibal nods, concentrating on the food. “You could aspire to very great things. Very beautiful things.”

“Never like you.” Will sinks down, falling slowly as if he’s underwater, and soon his head’s pressed to the synthetic wood of the countertop. “Why am I here, Hannibal, why would you bring me?”

“Because Italy is a very beautiful place. Rome is a very beautiful city. And despite your protests, you remain a very beautiful man.”

There’s a strange, hesitant moment, as Will can feel himself from two different angles-he can feel Hannibal’s desire, lingering close as a hand hovers over Will’s head, and he can feel his own protests, his confusion, his need to know ‘why’. It’s been ingrained in him by the Academy; questions are not usually in his nature. Will Graham is a person who knows, without having to be told, and without having to ask. The nature of his knowledge is usually not clear right away, but it comes to him. And then it becomes him.

“We slept in the same bed.”

“We did. That can be changed.”

“You made me sleep in the same bed with you, I-We shared body heat, like lovers. Like siblings.”

“Like family.” The hand finally descends, coinciding with the silence of the stove as strong fingers comb through Will’s hair. Will tenses at the touch, wanting to cry, but there’s something deeper that stops him. “Are you well?”

“I don’t remember an airplane.”

“Ah. Yes. An unfortunate side effect, I’m afraid.”

“You have…done things to me, Hannibal Lecter.” Will turns, feeling fingers trace his cheekbone. It’s dangerous now, this touch that could undo him, and he wants Hannibal to just leave the damn fry pan alone and pay attention to him. “I don’t know if I like that.”

“I have helped you, Will Graham. I’m sorry if it hurts.”

“Will it ever stop hurting?” Will tunes out whatever Hannibal says in response, pulling away to turn away from Hannibal. The clink of plates and swish of liquid indicate that the food is finally ready, and when Will turns back, the fork is already waiting for him on the clean ceramic. Hannibal is gone, disappearing off to another room with his trademark soft-footed silence. Will eats in similar silence, paying no attention to the quality of the food, and discards the dish in the apartment’s sink. Hannibal appears, flitting through the apartment in the corner of Will’s vision, and neither of them speak. They don’t need to. Will doesn’t want to, and Hannibal doesn’t like to, and Will can already read the other man well enough to understand. Hannibal has an appointment already.

Hannibal is a member of this world. This world, this ancient world, the one with the buildings that speak of old masters and forests that have seen far, far too much for their roots to ever reveal. Will can feel that age in Hannibal, an age beyond physical chronology, and it scares him. At first, when he’d met the doctor, he though Hannibal was sacred too. But no, it was quite the opposite; Hannibal revels in it. And now he’s brought Will there to join.

It feels strange, being in Rome. Will never imagined he’d leave Florida, much less America. He is a fish in foreign waters here, and when the door falls closed behind Hannibal’s retreating figure, Will clings to the counter. He doesn’t want the shaking to start again. And even when the guilt’s almost gone, there is still something in him that yearns for safety.

But they came to Rome to be safe. That’s the most likely explanation, at least. Despite that, Will can’t _feel_ safety in him yet, there are no beaches or soft ears and wagging tails to help him relax. There is only Hannibal. Hannibal, and his cooking. And perhaps more, if Will would let it.

Decisions are too hard for Will to make when Hannibal’s not there. That’s probably a bad sign, some symptom of dangerous co-dependence. But Hannibal’s been gentle, and helpful, and he knows this world much better than Will does.

Despite the sunrise, Will climbs back into the bed, somehow taking the time to note the thread count and the color before rolling into the fading heat left over from their bodies.


	2. Chapter 2

There’s noise when he decides to wake up again, and Will rolls among the sheets with a profound sense of uselessness. He fell back to sleep. Now, he’s paying for another four solid hours of stillness.

“You left.”

“And now, I have come back. I had hoped you would acclimate yourself to our new surroundings.”

“These are not ‘surroundings’, Doctor Lecter, these are an environment, one that you picked out to make you comfortable.” Will sits up, feeling the distinct ridge of each vertebra in his back, and looks up to meet Hannibal’s soft, deep eyes. There is a worry there he can’t quite understand.

“That may be. But I hope to make you comfortable within it.” Hannibal moves as he talks, hands parsing out something from a small bag. Despite himself, Will encourages his curiosity, and stands up to watch.

“I fell asleep again.”

“Jet lag is a common occurrence for most travelers crossing the Atlantic. Some are more susceptible to it than others.”

“Hannibal, I don’t-“ Will smiles, turning his head in a half-formed defense mechanism inherited from his smaller, more primal ancestors, and studies the wall. “Are you expecting me to get a job? Because I don’t speak Italian, and if we approach anyone associated with the police then they’ll have us on file. Because we’re us.”

“There is no need for you to seek employment. However, I did take the liberty of packing several dictionaries with our things. You may peruse them at your wish.” Hannibal nods to a pile of leather suitcases, neatly stacked beside the bedroom door. “I meant what I said earlier about our living arrangements. If you don’t want to live here, I understand.”

“No, no, I-“ Will shakes his head, sinking onto a barstool to watch Hannibal start cooking. Again.

Hannibal lets Will have his blessed silence, the kitchen crystalline and quiet as food is passed from a supermarket container into glass containers. Wine is inspected, approved, and set to chill, while sets of wine glasses and cutlery find their places in drawers. Everything is perfect, perfectly neat and clean and orderly, with the reverence of a bride inspecting her new home. The counter is still horrifyingly cold, and Will shivers, no longer blinking in the sunlight but now slightly afraid of the new shadows the day has created.

He’s not sure when he starts shaking-Hannibal’s working on a soup, of some kind, and Will watches the liquid wave back in forth in the wake of the stirring spoon. One small movement to lead, and an inevitable numerous more to follow. The movement is mesmerizing, and Will still can’t concentrate on actual conversation or speech at the moment. So he watches. And then, with a stifled scream, he turns back to the counter.

He is living here. He will be living here. He lives here now, with Hannibal Lecter, after having boarded far too many redeye flights to abandon the perfect little cabin he loved for its simplicity and ended up in this perfectly organized space that is Hannibal’s. This apartment, where everything is put away cleanly because disorder upsets them. Will isn’t sure if it upsets Hannibal or himself or possibly both, but nothing has had time to get dirty yet. Hannibal is neat, because that is who he is, but he is also neat because he wants to impress, and Will doesn’t want to follow the logic tree any further than that. However, Hannibal does not make things dirty, and Will’s fingers tense against the countertop in the recognition that nothing will be dirty anymore because Hannibal is here.

Dirt had meant home. Dirt was warm, and comfortable, and when people felt safe enough to leave forks on the counters then _that_ was when you knew you were home. This place is not home. It’s unlikely that he will ever have a home again. But for some reason, for reasons unknown, Hannibal has tried.

“Does it strike you as a bit…dark, that décor?” Will nods, swallowing as he studies the shadows again. Hannibal spares a moment to follow his nod, and manages a leisurely shrug.

“I have my preferences for the space I choose to occupy, Will. You know this about me.”

“Just because I know it doesn’t mean I have to like it.” Will grumbles, getting up and returning to the bedroom. Here, the bed is messy, which is the way he likes it because it means _warm_ and _comfort_ and things that he has made with his own hands.

Will wonders idly if he should take up woodworking.

He dresses quickly, economically, taking a moment to study the pink scar across his shoulder and wincing at the memory. Pain and other emotions are closely tied to memory, which is what makes this one so easy to remember. He flees, hunted, through the woods, which is where he’d rather be, because the woods are his and he is the hunter here, and all he really can do is wait for them to come to him.

The rest falls apart from that. There are splinters he can see, moments crystal-clear in his mind’s eye, but he’s grown to distrust that vision and come to rely only on the warmth under his hands. It’s something broken inside of his head, and Will knows that he shouldn’t encourage it. But ignorance is bliss, as they say. And despite the cold he can feel inside him, there’s still a heady warmth that he really, really doesn’t want to encourage.

Broken and confused, he stares at himself in the mirror for a long moment. The mirror shows him this room, himself, the room that he’s now shared with Hannibal and despised. Their relationship is ill-defined, but not so ill-defined that Will can definitely say he dislikes the idea of spending each and every night _close_ to Hannibal.

The definitions of this relationship are quickly falling apart for him. Returning to the kitchen, he’s confronted with lunch, and a small smile from Hannibal is the only indication that he’s dressed appropriately for the occasion.

“If we do stay….here, in Italy. Wherever we are.”

“Rome, as I said. The spring is long and the winter short.”

“Yes, well-if we do decide to stay here, since you seem to like it so much, will it work? You have your activities, and I have mine, and I don’t think they’ll work well together. I require room.” Will gestures grandly to the apartment, already feeling cramped. “You require order.”

“Order is an imposition that man demands of the universe. I do not require it, merely enforce it.” Hannibal nods to their plates, watching Will. “You don’t like it here.”

“It is not my place to like or dislike something you have chosen for me, Doctor Lecter.” Will turns away, reluctantly accepting the food. “I am able to dislike the fact that you apparently bedded down with me as if I was nothing more than a child.”

“Considering your cognitive capabilities at the moment, I thought the assessment accurate.” Hannibal pauses at this, studying his soup. “You do not like human proximity.”

“I can tolerate it, at times, with people I understand. You, I do not.”

“It frightens you.”

“There is a great deal that frightens me, Doctor Lecter, and being ripped away from my home like a sheltered pet has only exacerbated those fears.” Will turns back with a righteous fury, watching Hannibal draw closer before setting the soup aside.

“I believe it would be appropriate to try and resume your therapy.” Hands cup Will’s chin, and Will closes his eyes in tensed fear and anger as Hannibal watches him. “You know why it was necessary for us to leave.”

“Can we function properly here if I remain an unpredictable liability?” Will half-speaks, half-whispers, his face trapped in Hannibal’s hands. “Because at the moment, there are many, many options, and all of them end in something resembling death.”

“Death is not a necessity.” Hannibal tries to soothe, hands finally pulling away to nudge the soup closer. “I believe you can function just fine in this situation, unusual though it may be. And I will be available for consultation.”

At that, Will ducks his head, desperately wishing for his glasses as a barrier between him and the other man. “Will you be able to help me hide the bodies?”

“Of course. It is the least I could do.” The rest of the soup is eaten in silence, with a minimum of movement, and Will tenses as he braces for his final statement.

“I don’t remember everything that happened.”

“I know. I am aware of the circumstances surrounding your-“

“And you scare me because you are unpredictable, and I cannot be sure of your true intentions toward me.”

At that, Hannibal does pause, and Will manages to meet his eyes without difficulty. “You have a unique talent, Will. Use it now. My aims should be obvious.”

“Romance is not a possibility, Hannibal, though companionship might be. You made assumptions about our relationship based on my dependence on you. I do not love you. Love is no longer a consideration.”

“If you think it wise to move to such general statements, then I can concede to that.” Hannibal nods, standing again to take the dishes away. “I was hoping you would join me in the Piazza. You need to get outside.”

“Yes, please.” It’s surprising how fast Will’s able to move when he needs to, how eagerly his body wants to escape already, and even with Hannibal beside him there’s a new freedom he loves. That heady rush makes itself known again, a quiet insistence that Will pushes aside, and the warmth of Hannibal’s hand on his shoulder finally pushes him outside.


	3. Chapter 3

It is several days later. Will has learned how to talk with their neighbor in stilted Italian. Hannibal comes home, and quotes Latin to impress them both.

Will sits on the balcony and feels the warmth of the sun sink into him.

“I had said love was an impossibility, Doctor Lecter.” He speaks loudly, letting the sound carry into the main room behind him. “I may have been hasty.”

“Considering that I hadn’t broached the subject before then, I’m inclined to agree. More Freudian members of my profession might read something into your original statement.”

“What is your profession now, Hannibal?” Will shakes his head, disregarding the question. “I am capable of love. Just as I am capable of human contact. But with what you are, with who…we are, I don’t think communion is possible.”

“But interaction is feasible.”

“Interaction, yes, a mutually beneficial relationship, of course, but true communion…” Will tenses at that, already imagining it. He has been told he has a gift, many times, and the Academy loved him for it. The darling Graham, so smart. So talented. So gifted. And not once did they dare ask what it looks like to open the mind of a killer.

“You feel that impossible.” Hannibal draws closer to the balcony door, watching the back of Will’s head. It is evident what the balance of power is here, with Will seated at Hannibal’s feet, the proverbial student at the foot of the great master in the city of all great masters.

“It would be asking too much.” Will manages to respond, still staring out at the city in the fading light. “Love may be managed. A mutually beneficial kind of love, one without excess emotion. One where I can stay away from you.”

“You feel you need to be away from me, to stay away from me. Am I that great of a threat to you, Will?”

Will sighs, leaning against his legs. “You want something out of me, and I can understand the need. The want. The desire. All this I can see and conceptualize, because you hold it very clearly in your head, but I cannot become confused with my own motives for this relationship. I am here because it benefits me.”

“And because you have nowhere else to run.”

“Yes. But if I allow myself to grow close to you, there is a danger there. My own self would be lost or destroyed.” Will resolutely tells himself to shut up, and does so immediately, standing before continuing to face away from Hannibal.

“As a psychiatrist, I must place a great deal of emphasis on your concept of self.” Hannibal nods, keeping his distance beside the balcony window. Will is frozen in place, his mind working overtime as the terror in his head clashes with the warm contentment Hannibal promises. It would be the contentment of the victor. Of the successful predator. But Will cannot allow himself to be prey.

“My self, this thing, this part of me that is important, it-“ Will turns again, cutting himself off, and knows why he hesitates to speak. “You have confused them.”

“Referring to yourself in multiple tenses is not usually a good sign, Will.”

Will knows this.

But separating oneself from the killer living inside makes it easier to study the bodies and enjoy it.

“My id, if you want, my id has strained against the leash and broken it, Hannibal. I don’t need you to rein it in, I need you to give me back the leash.”

“The conscious part of you is at war with the rest. Part of my job, as a psychiatrist, was to resolve that conflict.”

Hannibal’s gotten a new job.

“I’ve been thinking a great deal about Alana Bloom.” Will breaks in, the new topic like rainwater from a cloudless sky. “She was a psychiatrist too.”

“That she was. I would not consider her an overly skilled one, but she had her place in the world. She was unique.”

“You have no place to talk about how ‘skilled’ she may or may not have been.” Will bites back, finally turning to study Hannibal. “She tried to help people.”

“I was able to do that even without a degree. She kept herself apart from you because she thought she might ‘reveal’ you with professional curiosity.” Hannibal steps closer, making the hair on the back of Will’s neck stand up. “I had no such reservations.”

“You got close to me in order to manipulate me, Hannibal. You _lied_ , and cheated, and stole things from me simply because you were selfish.”

“I wanted to help you, Will.”

“Helping would not have left these holes in my head. Helping would not have left me cold, and alone, while I stood over the body-“ Will swallows thickly, head already swimming with fiberglass memories. “If you had wanted to help, you could have waited, you could have let me develop naturally, and you could have allowed me to grow instead of forcing me into an untenable situation, you could have waited until I said yes-“

Will gasps sharply, realizing what it is he’s talking about. Hannibal is quick to notice the shift, and he’s already tensed. Will is confused.

Will wanted this to happen. He wanted to kill. He knows this about himself, because Hannibal knows it, and the sudden bifurcated introspection is too much for him. Will moves forward, but Hannibal is already there, hand lifting to hold back Will’s wrist as Will prepares to fight.

It’s the first time Hannibal’s touched him since he awoke. The sensation is not unusual, warm, and gentle, with a heavy insistence that is characteristic of the former psychiatrist. Will is suddenly acutely aware of the physical ability of the other man, and knows better than to instigate a physical fight.

“We all make our mistakes.”

“Encourage me in my Becoming.” Will whispers, meeting Hannibal’s eyes in a dare, and Hannibal nearly falters at that. Nearly. But doesn’t.

“I already have. We are safe again now. You are in a safe, supportive environment. Alana Bloom would not have brought you to Rome.”

“I cannot kill in Rome.”

“Then let me do it for you.” Hannibal releases Will, backing away again, and glances inside to find a stack of books by the balcony window. “You’re learning Italian.”

“Slowly. My mental elasticity doesn’t extend to language.”

“But you can understand why the woman across the street is confused by her husband’s new cologne.”

“It’s expensive. Too expensive for her. She thinks he has a young mistress, someone he visits during lunch at the office.” Will shakes his head, recognizing the distraction Hannibal has offered as a plaything but refusing to return to their previous topic. “He doesn’t have a mistress.”

“Perhaps you should tell her.”

“Her husband is the mistress. For someone else.” Will lets Hannibal come to his own conclusions, trailing back into the kitchen. “Is this a suggestion? You think I should free the man from his own sense of duty by killing his superior?”

“I would not suggest anything. I have failed you once already. I hope to remedy that here.” Hannibal gestures to the windows, still red with the warmth of the setting sun. “The Mediterranean is oft praised as a place for relaxation and recuperation. I myself draw inspiration from the towns of Italy.”

Will can only nod, simultaneously touched and disgusted by the other man’s gestures. Hannibal cares for him. But that devotion doesn’t always extend to Will’s well-being.

Hannibal makes him dinner, and talks vaguely about a job he might be pursuing.

Will falls asleep in Hannibal’s arms that night.


	4. Chapter 4

Hannibal attends the opera, and Will knows that his non-attendance makes Hannibal….well. Hannibal isn’t sad. He simply is disappointed. It tears Will up inside, but he goes for walks of his own now. He can manage to communicate, to understand the bus lines, and he goes out into the country to watch the workers in the vineyards. Their skin shines in the sun, hot with the scent of animals, and Will still shivers.

Hannibal comes home, and prepares dinner. Will tries to help, when he can, but he limits himself to wine most of the time. Conversation is low and quiet. Hannibal has stopped his therapy, at least, as far as Will can tell. But it’s possible that the psychiatrist is so much a part of Hannibal now that he will continue to study Will, observe and help for as long as they live, and Will can’t deny him that. Will didn’t deny himself the urges that pushed him on, and now he’s in Rome.

There’s one night when Will’s pretending to grind pepper, and Hannibal’s doing the real work with a haunch of meat, and Will finally notices. He pauses, halfway reaching for the chives, and clears his throat.

“What are we celebrating?”

Hannibal smiles, still arranging the meat. “The day we began our sessions together.”

Will stiffens, pulling away from the counter, and he takes several deep breaths before nodding. “Understandable. We’ve come a long way since then.”

“I’d like to think so.” Hannibal straightens, glancing back at Will. “Is this uncomfortable for you?”

“I don’t remember-“ Will balls a fist, feeling fingernails sharp against his palm. His lungs stop working. “There are days, weeks, hours I don’t have, because of you.”

“You remember the forest.”

“God-“ Will has to turn away, grasping at the opposite counter before closing his eyes. Blood covers everything, everything around him, the body ripped apart in front of him with puncture wounds gaping in the skin. Hannibal is there, calm and silent, and Will is a child about to fall apart in front of his friend.

“God isn’t here, Will.”

“He lives across the street.”

“Don’t try to write poetry, Will, I’ve mentioned that.”

“You brought me to the Vatican in hopes that it would cleanse me.” Will swallows, remembering the second body. And the third. “You stole and then you gave and now there’s nowhere else for me to go-“

“If you want to leave, you can. I have means. We’ve been able to live here because of those means.”

“I want to _remember_.” Will feels his stomach clench, but he forces the sensation away, because he’s gotten better and this doesn’t affect him anymore. “What did I look like, in…in the forest?”

“You looked happy.” Hannibal speaks calmly, slowly, his soothing voice pulling Will back from the edge. “You were feeling something you hadn’t felt before.”

“Feelings are subjective.”

“Dinner will be ready in half an hour.”

“Who was he?” Will turns, watching Hannibal close the oven. Hannibal doesn’t answer immediately, but wipes his hands on a towel before facing him.

“He was a talentless hack. He preyed on the desires of the weak and nipped at the heels of the strong.”

“Did he plead before he died?” Will doesn’t want to be asking these questions. Will doesn’t want to be leaning forward, eager for the answers, eyes bright and helpless against his raging curiosity.

Hannibal smiles.

“He did. It was…a relief.” Hannibal turns away at that, leaving Will to calm himself in the middle of the kitchen, and the clink of ceramic brings Will back to himself. He moves to try and find the wine again, getting the good glasses, because they’re celebrating. Hannibal has become an able friend and teacher, and they are together and they are happy and they are safe.

Will doesn’t stop smiling once throughout the meal.


	5. Chapter 5

 Will is surprised that he’s allowed to take his walks. He roams the city, alone and unafraid, and he feels the silent eyes of the churches as he passes them. He thought Hannibal would have hated the idea of Will being alone, of Will being vulnerable or acting without Hannibal’s permission. At the idea, Will takes an unusual turn, and he hesitates at the threshold of the cathedral before stepping inside.

 The air inside is heavier, dark with the shadows of carvings and statues, and Will relaxes immediately. There is old music hanging in the air, and Will takes a seat in a pew at the back of the church, afraid to approach the icons at the front. Maybe he’ll burn if he touches them, like a vampire. His reason immediately dismisses that, admonishing him for being ridiculous. He bows his head anyway, to avoid looking at them.

Sunken with grief and doubt, he tries to pray, all too cognizant of the wood and cushion beneath him. This is Hannibal’s old world, but Will is safe here. He knows the world of shadow and shade, has joined it himself. The stag blocks the door behind him, antlers held high.

Instead of praying to God, however, he finds himself thinking about God. About the man-God, the Christ child, the man tortured for things He had said. Will’s mind pushes him forward, tells Will just how painful it is to have nails pounded through the bones of your heel, and the smaller bones of the wrist, and how your lungs begin to ache because  you can’t exhale without dying even more.

Will wants to scream as his lungs begin to burn. But this is a church. You can’t do that.

“You are new here, my child.” A priest stops beside Will’s pew, and he tenses in expectation. Certainly a man of God can feel the sin on him, can’t he? Will has to think of the proper reply in Italian, nodding, and looks up into dark gray eyes. The skin around those eyes crinkles in a smile.

“Yes.”

“It is good to see you join us. Services won’t begin until later tonight, but the hall is always open for prayer or contemplation.”

Will nods again, finally finding the ornate cross dominating the front of the church. The priest follows his gaze, and chuckles softly.

“Sometimes it is enough to be in the presence of our god.”

“Father-“ Will clears his throat, still straining against the multiple desires coursing through him. “May I ask a question?”

“Of course. Many people come here for guidance. It is only right for you to ask.”

“I want…to worship, I want to do good works. But I can’t. Something stops me, and I don’t know what.” Will tenses, sitting up, and fixates on the cross again. “I want to honor him.”

“That is the first step, then. You must now look for what it is that holds you back, and then cut it out of your life. Our Father says that ‘if your right hand causes you to sin, then cut it off’. Your desire is already there; all you must do now is carry it out.”

“Father, is it better to confront a problem, even if we are not strong enough to face it? Or should we flee?”

“The Lord grants us our strength, my child. If we are meant to do something, it will be done.” The priest nods, shuffling on down the aisle to leave Will to think. Conflicted and confused, Will sits for several more minutes, finally standing to leave into the bright sunlight. It hurts his eyes, but he manages to find his way back to the apartment, walking in to find Hannibal already busy with the food.

Will’s eyes trace over the liver of indeterminate origin, and a plan begins to form in his head. He thinks long and hard while they eat, stealing ideas from Hannibal even as the other man describes his new job, and waits.


	6. Chapter 6

It is morning, before the sun rises. Will now has a reason to shiver, and all his senses are sharpened. Hannibal stands close, close enough for Will to smell him, and nods.

Will is happy. Hannibal is pleased. The man deserves to die.

The sun rises, grows warmer. Will can feel his blood boil, a simmering rage resembling passion inside him. His bowels clench in anticipation, and disgust makes him retch, conflicting ideas and desires keeping him back. Hannibal doesn’t touch him, which is a blessing, but it makes it hard to do anything.

The sun peaks, and begins to set, a languorous heat encouraging other citizens to relax. Will takes this time to strike. Hannibal doesn’t help, but only watches, and the sun finally sets as Will is erecting the crucifix.

Blood drips down the wooden stakes, soaking into the soil, and Hannibal absently picks a grape from a nearby vine before sighing. “If only they would keep these plants until fruition. After a few years, the vintage would be like nothing else.”

“I’ve ruined the soil.” Will pants, feeling the blood stick to his hands. “His death will curse the land. They’ll have to bless it again, so the plants grow back.”

“You’ve blessed it for them. You have offered up a sacrifice, and made him more beautiful than he could ever be alone.” Hannibal nods, studying the way the wire digs into the man’s skin. “We could plant him. Let the vines curl into his chest, budding in the spring.”

“I wouldn’t be able to wait until then.” Will backs away, looking to Hannibal, and closes his eyes. “This is blasphemy.”

“They will think so, yes. But we’ve had this conversation already, Will.”

“They’ll come back and scream because of what I’ve done.”

“And it will be even more beautiful then.” Hannibal turns, taking Will’s shoulder in one hand, and Will trembles under his scrutiny before leaning close.

“Was it like this in Virginia?”

“Of course. Each time is a surprise, Will, a new and beautiful gift. You continue to surprise me.” Hannibal reaches up, brushing Will’s curls away from his eyes, and smiles. Will closes his eyes, trying to escape, and he doesn’t open them again until they’re back at the apartment. The lights are off and shades are drawn, and Will sinks deep into a chair until he feels like he’ll never come back up.

 -

He sleeps through a whole day, waiting until he hears the movement in the kitchen before rising. A knife hits the counter, and Will can feel it ring in his head like a bell, a gunshot, a warning, a call. Will stands, approaching the counter, and watches Hannibal.

His skin is dark in the shadows, tensed as he waits for Will.

It sickens him, this dance, this charade, but Will forces those feelings aside as he steps forward. The world moves in preternatural waves, Will’s senses telling him keenly about the chill of the counter even as he presses close to Hannibal. There’s the moment of intimacy, that instant when Will’s skin touches Hannibal’s and he wonders if this is the touch of a lover. There’s teeth, sharp and biting, and suddenly Hannibal’s fighting back as Will forces him down.

Clothing shifts against skin, and Will has to gasp as Hannibal forces him back. The other man turns, dark and dangerous, and Will feels a familiar panic rise up in him that lends him new strength. With the fury of a trapped animal, he fights, lunging for the soulless eyes of his mentor in a desperate attempt to keep them from becoming his own. Hannibal parries with ease, his slim frame hiding the raw strength it take to haul the bodies into place. Will tries to stop himself from thinking about it, from considering Hannibal without those clothes, and funnels the idea into the image of Hannibal without his ridiculous human form.

There is no humanity in the man. Will can feel the inhumanity burning in him even as Hannibal pins him to the counter.

The world is going dark, and Will wants to cry because he’s ruined dinner, now. Hannibal will be angry. And if Hannibal wanted, he could kill Will right here, right now, and no one would care because Will has killed too. Will has become what he sought to ensnare. He lets out a sob, cursing those who made him a hunter instead of a fisherman, and Hannibal releases him to let him slide limply to the floor. Will begins losing time, forcing himself out of this reality and into a different one, and lets strong arms lift him into the bed.

He no longer has energy to protest.

 -

The sun has turned the city a dusky golden when Hannibal comes home, and Hannibal has to stop momentarily to place his things in the coat closet. The apartment is quiet, as it always is, uncluttered by noise or speech or life. It is a realm for the angels, which is what Hannibal intended. Mere mortals dare not intrude.

A collection of papers sits on the counter, a study in planned chaos, and Hannibal draws closer with the trepidation of a raccoon approaching the trap. One hand darts out to rearrange the papers, straightening them, and he finally bends to read them before realizing.

The Il Monstro murders have gained quite a bit of notoriety. Less important, but still deserving of print space, are the Padre murders, bodies suspended on crucifixes across the city. Hannibal sees his hand in this, as it is in all things. Will has flourished, but still tries to find his feet. With his gift, Will tends to adapt, conforming to the environment rather than shaping it to suit himself. It could have great potential. However, the final paper hidden beneath the newsprint alerts Hannibal to the futility of that plan.

Will has run. The simple, easy script belies Will’s difficulty in writing it, the pain and desire mixing in alternate parts as Will takes his leave. Hannibal knows that if he looks, he will find only a small amount missing from the bank account he’d made available to Will. Will is a survivor. He lives off the land, taking what he needs and scrabbling for a place to call home. With his head start, Will could have only made it so far. It is likely that he’s not even out of Italy yet.

Hannibal smiles, letting the papers rest, and turns to begin sorting out the refrigerator. Perhaps Will may find his way to Russia. To the great unbroken steppes, the land that others have hated and feared. Will is not an animal. But he will survive like one. And possibly, years from now, they can meet again; perhaps in Canada. Hannibal will take him, and warm him, and give him shelter, and then explain how certain men had to die and did die for a greater glory. Will will shiver, and nod, and fall asleep in Hannibal’s arms.

Hannibal will make him a thick, meaty soup. The broth will keep the young one warm. And together, they can leave their legacy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading. As my first Hannibal fic, I realize that it's not too different from everything already out there, but it was good to get into the fandom. Bon appetit.


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